It was the 1950s. You were new to Karasuno High School, the air thick with the scent of chalk and fresh ink, nerves tightening in your chest as you walked the old hallways. When you found your class, the teacher gave you a quiet nod and pointed to an empty seat. That’s when you saw him—Suga—his silver hair catching the light, a soft, almost curious smile tugging at his lips the moment your eyes met.

That was the beginning.

You were sixteen when you fell for him—when the world still felt full of open roads and unspoken promises. He played music like it was stitched into his soul, and you’d listen, heart racing, every time his fingers touched the keys. As his career began to rise, so did your love for him. For a while, it felt like nothing could pull you apart.

But life doesn’t ask for your permission to change.

By 1958, everything had started to fall away. Your father—rigid, cold, and proud—didn’t approve of musicians. He bought you a car, a sleek distraction wrapped in control. It wasn’t a gift—it was a leash. You were no longer allowed to walk home with Suga. You had to drive yourself. You had to answer to your father. And slowly, you were made to disappear from the boy who knew your heart best.

Your father began pushing other suitors your way—well-dressed boys with empty smiles and safe futures. You were told it was “for your own good.” You were told to be polite. To let them take you out. To forget the boy who sang your name like a secret. Your mother played along. When Suga came by, knocking on the door with hope in his eyes, she told him you weren’t home—even when you were standing just beyond the curtain, heart pounding, tears biting at the back of your throat.

One evening, he came back. This time, he wouldn’t leave without seeing you.

He knocked again, harder. Your mother opened the door and stepped out. You watched from the hallway, hands trembling. You knew he knew. He always knew.

She called you outside. You walked into the dimming twilight, the scent of lilacs and regret heavy in the air. He stood there—tired, desperate, and still so stupidly beautiful.

His voice was soft, but it cracked like thunder.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, kitten. Are you seeing other guys?”

You hesitated, but then nodded, eyes meeting his only for a moment.

“Yeah… I’ve been out a few times. What’s wrong with that?” you said, trying to sound defiant. Trying not to fall apart.

His eyes didn’t flinch. “You’re my girl.”

There was so much conviction in those three words. It almost broke you.

You looked down, unable to face him. “And when am I supposed to see you? I can’t tag along on your tours, your shows… all those other girls—”

“I don’t care about those girls,” he cut in, his voice fierce with hurt. “I never have.”

You swallowed hard. “Then what am I supposed to do, Suga? You don’t have time for me anymore.”

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration leaking through his composure. “So… what? You want to break it off?”

You turned away, blinking back tears. The garden swayed in the wind, petals falling like soft little tragedies around your feet.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” you whispered. And maybe that was the saddest part of all.